Last Drink
by Kat J
Summary: A short fic about Sonny.


  
  


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Sometimes he has sordid, disjointed dreams about his past, the present, and the future. Sometimes he still feels very much like that little boy locked in the closet. He breathes that stagnant, pungent air and it claws at his lungs. 

He wakes up half the time sweaty and swinging his fists, looking for a target long gone. The rest of the time he screams. He screams so loud he wakes up Carly and Michael. Sometimes he screams so loud the guards can hear him. It takes both Johnny and Max to carry him up to bed and calm him down on those nights. 

He likes to drink bourbon.

Strong.

Soothing.

Burning.

He likes the taste of it as it slides down his throat and pools inside his belly.

He drinks until he's drunk and even after he's drunk. 

It's the only way he can forget his humble beginning and the brutal beatings of his childhood. He remembers his mother's cherub face and how she died like an animal. 

He remembers the way no one held him the day his mother died. How lonely and lost he was that night as he walked the streets and searched for his purpose. 

He can cook a five-course Italian meal that could rival any grandmother's in Italy, but he can't forget the look in his mother's eye when she told him to 'be someone'. 

He's someone now.

Someone grown men fear.

Someone who certain women abhor and others want to fuck.

He has power and money, a nice wife and a cute kid. 

It's not enough. 

Because that kid can't even keep a single friend once their parents find out his father is Sonny Corinthos. And his wife can't go out shopping by herself because she might be shot. And his money and power are a joke because at any second he could be dead and it could all be taken away. 

Sometimes he's still afraid of the dark. 

He cowers and shakes and can't even move when he's in a confined area. 

He doesn't trust. 

Never has. 

He's learned that eventually, if you give a person enough time, they'll disappoint you. 

He hates to be disappointed. 

He hates not getting his way. 

When things don't come easy, he likes to smash things. He likes to hear the crunch of glass as he walks over it. Likes to watch vases spew onto the fireplace; their colourful remains coating the floor in a thick mosaic of ceramic. 

He likes it best when he cuts himself. When the blood comes from his fingers and slips down his palms, he's satisfied. 

He can finally breathe. 

He can finally see that he is alive and that the dark red plasma spouting from his open wound is real. 

He likes to drink bourbon.

Strong.

Soothing.

Burning.

He likes the taste of it as it slides down his throat and pools inside his belly.

Sometimes he plans his own funeral. He hasn't been satisfied with his fake deaths yet. There is always something not quite right. He has yet to place what it is, so he plans. He plans and plans, until his head hurts and he needs a drink. 

The city lights mesmerize him and he stares out the tall window for hours at a time. He likes the way the light passes through his drink and casts shadows on the opposing wall. It's like a concert. 

An orchestra without sound. 

The colours are his instruments and they play off each other and sometimes find the time to duet. 

Sometimes he stumbles over his words because he's run out of polite things to say. He can't say what's really on his mind. The dark, dangerous thoughts that would make him appear even colder than he was. 

He wishes he could say them. He wants to be able to stop stuttering and stammering for the right words. What are the right words after all? Whatever they are, he doesn't have them. 

Women call him charming. 

Charming like the devil. 

If only they knew how much Lucifer he really had in him. 

It's his dimpled smile that makes him seem so sincere when really he's lying through his pearly white teeth. 

And his women love him even when he's lying. 

Even when he cheats. 

Even when he kills.

And they'll love him even when he's dead. 

He'll live inside of them. 

He'll be immortal.

"Come to bed, Sonny," Carly says and tries to keep that begging, concerned tone out of her voice. 

He hates and loves that tone. 

"I will in a minute," he tells her and he'll have one last drink and then another. 

She'll find him passed out on the couch in the morning and she'll cover him with a blanket and tell Michael to try to be quiet and she'll try to hide the fear and pain from her eyes. 

He hates that look. 

She may even try to take the glass from his tightly wrapped fingers and maybe she won't.

He likes to drink bourbon.

Strong.

Soothing.

Burning.

He likes the taste of it as it slides down his throat and pools inside his belly.

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I disclaim. I don't own the character etc. Please remember to share your thoughts. :)


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